he evening is unremarkable. Typical Terrastellan fall evening. There is a warm front that finds itself blowing across the ocean, winding through the streets. It graces against my hair a little less than a lover, little more than a friend. It smells like salt and sea. My siblings and I used to pretend to be pirates when we went to the beach house. Bennett pretended to have a peg leg. We haven't played make believe in a long time. I don't even know who I would pretend to be anymore.
(Maybe a rainstorm, that makes the ship creak and rock and groan.)
(Flood it. Sink it. Destroy it.)
We are going to a charity event, always going to a charity event. Our family gives money to one cause after another. I know there are ulterior motives, we give enough money and everyone else keeps quiet in any regards to our family. We have a free pass. It is rare though to see a Foster actually get their hands dirty though.
My eldest sister braided my hair, as if I would even be noticed in a room full of important people, when really all they want to do is look at my parents. We, their children, are their accessory. Our job is to smile for the second they look at us, all ducks in a row, before we are dismissed. Still, it looks nice I suppose, not a hair out of place. I looked up at her, leggy, tall, with impossibly dark eyes and cheek bones that could cut glass and I wondered if I will ever be as beautiful as she is.
There’s no buffet, and I am not to drink until my next birthday, so I ask for a water. It is disappointingly bland. I’m used to my water with a squeeze of lemon. I drink it quickly before handing the glass back to one of the servers. They offer me wine, but I politely decline. I’ve had champagne before, for big celebrations: New Years, weddings, graduations. The first time I had it I squished my face as it bubbled on my mouth, I had just been coloring before being dragged away to this party. The next time I remembered being scolded and so I made the same face, but I made it inside my head, I had been playing in the gardens when I was brought to that graduation. Another time, I was handed the glass and sipped it, for the first time finding it pleasant, I had just finished an archery lesson. And still one more time, I took the glass and drank it in one swallow, the gardener’s daughter had just told me this was the last time she would have tea with me, she couldn't see me anymore.
She has her back turned to me, but I recognize her, it is the duty of every Foster to know the current run of politics, who is who. She is unbothered and I really should leave her alone, let her enjoy her evening, but I’ve always been a bit of a hopeless child. “Commander,” I say when I reach her. My smile still feels cold no matter how I try to to warm it. Fake something enough and you no longer remember what genuine feels like. “I…” I stutter, it’s unbecoming of me. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, everyone seems to be mingling and I guess I have given into the peer pressure,” I try to jest, no matter how dreadful I am at it. I blink steel grey eyes.
“I’m Isabella Foster.”
I wont remember all the details of this evening, just as I do not remember the details of a lot of evenings. Someone, one of my classmates, at my lesson tomorrow will ask me: ‘What did you do last night?’ I will shrug halfheartedly, offer little more than a simper and say “Not too much, a charity event with my family.” And then I will pause and think back:
“Oh, but I did meet the Commander.”
code by rallidae
picture colored by Elidhu
@Marisol
Because the old Marisol—Commander, not Queen—would never have been caught dead at an event like this, as honorable or well-intentioned as it might be. She would have found any excuse to be busy on the night. And most of them weren’t even excuses; there was a time when her every waking moment was occupied by looking over the barracks, reining in wayward cadets, scraping blood off the hard-packed sand footing of the spar ring, rain or shine.
And somehow she has still ended up here. Soft. Lazily settled in the reaches of high society and not the underbelly of the Terrastellan army. Who am I? Marisol thinks as she slinks through the venue. When she catches sight of herself in a frosty piece of gilded mirror, she almost does not recognize herself, brushed to gleaming, her tail bound in a thick, neat braid instead of choked with sweat and dirt.
Mari looks beautiful. She knows this. But—beautiful in the way of someone else.
It might be a typical Terrastellan evening, but she does not feel typical at all. And even if the night itself is ordinary—a warm front followed by a brief, chilly wind; the sky a little overcast in shades of gray and purple, the lights in the streets gleaming like fresh-caught stars—there is an edge to it that doesn’t feel ordinary. The air is sharp, almost electric; when Marisol breathes in, it is mint-cold inside her lungs. Darkness has settled in the corners of the city. The gods are watching, it feels like.
Vespera’s eyes fall on her back like stone after stone after stone, and they follow her even as she slinks out of the streets and into the party.
A servant accosts her almost as soon as she enters. A short chestnut, his hair done in neat knots, proffers a tray of well-polished champagne flutes, and with a strained smile, against her better judgement, Marisol takes one from the dish and presses it to her mouth. Bubbles drift up from its surface, and Mari’s nose wrinkles at their brief sting. She is only just taking her first sip of the nearly-gold liquid when a girl’s voice interrupts her, soft and eager: Commander?
Marisol’s ear flicks sharply back at the title. Surprise washes over her, and for a moment she wonders whether Vespera Herself has sent whoever this is to remind her of who she really is.
She turns to meet the stranger.
It is but a girl. She looks vaguely familiar, and Mari stares as she tries to place her recognition—is she a Foster, maybe? Either way, she is beautiful. A hand or so shorter than Mari, her skin is a soft silver turning sooty at the edges, and one of her back feet is capped in a thick line of white. They don’t look much alike except, maybe, for build, and—
Marisol is startled, almost burned by surprise, when she sees the girl’s steel-gray eyes. (It is not all that common a color.)
A brief moment of silence as she gathers herself. Then: “Of course not,” Mari responds finally, offering the softest of smiles. “Your family has done much for our country. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabella.”
And if the name feels nearly familiar, it can’t be seen on her dark face.
have been to so many parties that I have honestly lost count. Since I was young I was told to come, to behave, to be seen and not heard. I had to smile, to politely introduce myself to those who spoke with our family. I curtseyed, I braided my hair, I stood up tall and straight. I complimented.
There is so much more that goes into being a Foster than many people know.
I wonder if the Commander, the Queen, feels the same way. We see the exterior, but what happens behind all of that? Does she build towers of stone miles high to stand upon? I can only imagine what it is like to carry the weight of an entire kingdom on your back.
Does she have anyone to help her carry it?
She turns around to face me and those steel grey eyes look into something like a mirror. I have never felt this when looking at my own family, and I have never realized what it feels like to see something of yourself in another. It is haunting. A chill runs up my spine, someone walking on my grave in another life. Or so the stories go.
What my family has done for our country. Rather what our money has done. Most Fosters do not even lift a finger, it is far easier to hand over a wallet. But I smile anyway, it would be unbefitting of me to offer the commander such a comment. If word of what I said then rang back to my family, I would be punished and face shame in their eyes.
“I should say the pleasure is also mine,” I offer her politely. “How do you manage to find the time to come to these arrangements?” I ask. “I imagine the Halcyon unit keeps you rather busy.” I say admiringly. This is when my eyes go to her wings that dress her back. I always used to pretend I had wings like that, running as fast as I possibly could along our family’s beach, thinking maybe if I could just run a bit faster, maybe I could take off and fly.
“Your wings, they are beautiful.” I say and something happens, something slips through that Foster mask I had so painstakingly created since birth. I look almost like—“I have always admired Halcyon, even asked for stories of them often as a child.” I say.
I don’t mention the feather.
I don’t mention the baby blanket of the winged horses.
I don’t mention how I think I was supposed to be born with wings and I dream about them.
Maybe if I had, everything that happened here and after would have been different.
But as it is. “I must thank you again for coming, it is an honor.” I say overly polite. “If you ever have the time, I have updated some maps of the city and I would love to show you or anyone really that it could benefit.” And that mask slides back into place and I am a Foster once more. “They are not doing much use in our library.” Our library, that library of all our secrets. No, we cant say secrets, not when we so willingly share it with the world.
code by rallidae
picture colored by Elidhu
@Marisol
Marisol’s mouth is still stinging with the taste of champagne when their eyes meet. There is an insistent pop-pop-pop of bubbles against her tongue that lingers even after she’s swallowed it down, and for a moment the queen feels a little... awkward. She becomes increasingly aware of her proximity to the other guests. Their body heat makes her itch. Their breaths are too loud in her ears. For a moment, Marisol feels lost in the sea of noise, and bodies, and twinkling lights; lost in a world that is in one sense hers and, through another lens, will never be hers no matter how hard she tries.
Part of her is devastated by this realization, though she came to it a long time ago. Another part of her insists, stubbornly, that she and this part of Dusk—the part made for the truly civilized, the part where blood is never spilled—are better off without one another. She might destroy it; it would certainly destroy her.
Heat blazes through her nose. The embarrassment makes her feel almost childish. A flush rises briefly to her cheeks, though most of it is lost in the darkness of her skin. I should be old enough, Marisol thinks to herself, to drink without wincing.
But the concept is foreign to her. Years of training from sun-up to sun-down segued into (in some places, overlapped with) years of politics without much room to breathe in between; somehow, the ability to drink gracefully didn’t make an appearance in either curricula. And Marisol is so used to her strict diets that even a few sips is enough to set her lightly buzzing. She’s already growing warm by the time the girl starts speaking.
But, to the Commander's credit, she is able to focus instantly. Like a hawk, zeroing in on a mouse a hundred feet below. Her eyes meet Isabella's and remain there, steady, intense, and slightly narrowed. (Like Dalmatia once said of her: Marisol has eyes like weapons, slate gray and sharp, and she has a strange way of looking at you, a way of making you feel like you don’t really exist.) If she is distracted by the noise around them, then it is impossible to tell, for her ears remain pricked curiously forward; and even as the crowd turns and jostles around them, Marisol forces herself to remain concentrated on the Foster's voice as she speaks.
(Perhaps forces is not the right word. Paying attention to her is easy. Too easy. It is—it is as if they are two magnets of opposite poles, and even if Marisol wanted to look away, she could not. It would be painful. And more importantly, she doesn't want to.)
"It does," Mari responds, "keep me busy. The Halcyon. But I have two titles to honor now, and..." She shrugs, almost helplessly. What else is there to say about it? I have two titles to honor now, and I would rather die than disgrace them. I have two titles to honor now, and if honoring them comes at the expense of my sleep, my health, my life—
Well, so be it.
Your wings are beautiful. Marisol's chest grows warm; a hint of a smile curls the edges of her lips, and for just a split second she touches her cheek to her own shoulder, almost bashful. Compliments are not so terribly hard to come by. But compliments on her wings, of all things, are uncommon. And... she cannot explain it, but something about this girl in particular complimenting her touches Marisol differently. Her gray eyes catch the light a little bit brighter when she speaks. "Thank you, Isabella."
The Commander pauses for a moment, not sure what to say next. But when she does speak it is both collected and earnest: "I have not been to your family's library in... many years. I would certainly enjoy a tour from you. But—while we're stuck here—" she looks conspiratorially around the crowded room. "—describe it to me. What have you collected recently?"
t every one of these parties, with every fake smile, I can feel pieces of myself breaking, breaking off into the hands of my family for them to hold, I am only perfection when I have entirely fallen apart. Kneecap. Teeth. Jawbone. Cheekbone.
I remember that first time I ever felt it, the falling apart, the way I felt like an imposter and that I was lying every time I introduced myself. I started to panic, I could not breath. ‘Be normal now,” she had bit at me. “What?” I said, but wanted to cry. “Because you are and you can be.” I had stopped my movement, but there was still such a deep chasm of panic over my face, settling there. “Don't cause a scene,” my mother had whispered. “Stand up tall and breathe.” I did what she asked as soon as I was able to, just as I had always done, and still do.
Neither one of us seem adequate enough at conversation, although, where this should send a sting of awkwardness down my spine, and the flush warmth of shame to my cheeks, I feel neither. I feel only the cool sense of comfort by finding someone who is almost like me in a way. Does the Commander too feel as though she were a fraud at these parties? Or does she come in with a practiced ease that try as I might, I can never manage to make feel genuine, only phony.
I feel eyes press into us, they stare from the outside, some want to come forward, think better of it. I can feel her eyes cutting into me, like stones, and maybe I would frightened if the eyes she stares into were not as strong as stone as well. She says the magic word though and all my focus, all my attention falls into her. Halcyon. It sounds different coming from her mouth than the lips of my mother when she tells me a tale. “I enjoyed the history lessons of Vespir and Cleopatra.” (for in the Foster family we never have stories, just lessons) “What do you think happened to them? Do you think Cicero and Seneca really killed them?” The stories go that they went out for a patrol and never returned, that they were killed by Cicero and Seneca, but no bodies were found. I used to pretend I went out exploring and found them, huddled in a cave, plotting and scheming. They applauded my efforts and I became a cadet. I laugh at it now, a Foster Halcyon, the idea is ridiculous enough to be ludicrous, but I believed it then.
I don’t know of the effect I give her by such a little compliment. I expect her to receive such a comment often. Marisol is stunning, if not for the sheer fact of her strong and steady presence, but for the way she leads Terrastella in such an awe inspiring display. “You’re welcome,” I say with that practiced politeness back, not wanting those silly childhood fantasies to blossom on my face.
She offers her a hollow smile that does not quite reach her eyes. “I would say we have expanded our reach to other Courts,” I say. “Studying, gathering more information,” I add with a strange monotone. “Fosters do not like secrets, unless they are our own.”
code by rallidae
picture colored by Elidhu
@Marisol
I enjoyed the history lessons of Vespir and Cleopatra. What do you think happened to them? Do you think Cicero and Seneca really killed them?
Marisol stares.
She is not offended, exactly. Isabella is as entitled as any other Terrastellan—more so, maybe—to ask these kinds of questions. (It is, after all, what her family is known for.)
But Marisol has always known the Fosters to be slyer than they are straightforward, more reserved than they are willing to show their true colors, and the unexpected, though refreshing, bluntness of Isabella’s questions catch the Commander almost off guard. Isn’t this a party? A place for dodging the obvious, a place for speaking in tongues? (That’s what she’s always thought of them, at least. Parties are worse than battlefields; there are more ditches, more pitfalls, more mines to avoid. The path is strict and narrow.)
Marisol stares.
She is not offended, exactly, but she is intrigued. And another, younger, more paranoid part of her is afraid to answer, so suddenly and strikingly afraid it makes her blood run cold as ice, because—
Because she knows. She knows the answer, all of its terrible facets and all the parts of the story that don’t make sense, even now, years later. And what kind of leader would she be, laying the weight of that knowledge on the shoulders of some schoolgirl?
Marisol stares. Then, suddenly, her senses break to the surface. She blinks, shakes her head abruptly as if there is water in her ears; and then, finally, she clears her throat with a nervous almost-laugh. Not as though the question itself is ridiculous—but an almost laugh that says, don’t you already know?
“I know what I think,” Marisol answers. It’s a response of truth and confidence. “But you’d be better off asking Vespir than me.” Her lips twist in a wry expression that is almost-but-not-quite a smile. In tandem with the sudden seriousness of her eyes, the iron set of the rest of her face, it implies with some gravity that, despite its seeming ludicrousness, this is not a joke.
Then her whole expression turns to solemnity again, a flash-freeze that even the most oblivious of company would find hard to overlook.
The mood has changed a little. Maybe the room between them is a touch less wild, just a little more restrained; maybe the air has grown a degree colder, such a slight shift it shouldn’t be worth noticing.
But it is. Marisol straightens up. She pulls back her shoulders, draws her posture into a perfect, rigid line. The look in her eyes is not cold, not closed-off, but it is almost a little wary; it begs the question, why would you want to know? And it is a testament to the life she lived growing up that Marisol cannot think of a single inconspicuous reason.
“Ah,” she remarks, “just what a leader wants to hear. That her kingdom’s best historians like keeping secrets to themselves.” Her voice is light again, having lost some of its strain now that the subject has been turned from Seneca and Cicero; in fact, she almost sounds amused, as if this answer is a dare.
If pressed, who would Isabella choose? Her country or her family?
ou seem surprised by my question,” I comment to her. My face remains impassive as I scan the planes of her own, looking for any answers int he furrow of her brow, the the set of her lips. I should take it back, should not have commented on the way she stares, but I have never been particularly attuned to gentler emotions. How can I be when there sits in my eyes both steel and stone? It was not just my way to be hard, but my birthright.
We blink at the same time.
I missed it, but we did.
“I don’t doubt it,” I say with what would be laughter from anyone else, but from me it is just a rush of air from my lungs, unformed and lacking. “Everyone speaks of your intelligence, Commander, and your keen eye, your direct hand in leadership,” I say to her. Compliments they should be, but from myself they are just facts, things I have learned in my studies, heard from my instructor in the library. They speak highly of Marisol, as highly of her as they do Florentine.
Fosters love their secrets, as any family does, but ours are so much harder to reach. The De Clare’s so announce their secrets with their restricted access, their hushed voices, but Fosters we let them all into our libraries, watch them as they fumble through papers, help them find what they are looking for, only so we know what information is being sought, what questions are being asked. A Foster would always be the first to know of anything that happens in Dusk Court. And it would all be under the guise of a foe smile and one hand helping, while the other narrates the story in a journal with a lock. “At least you know they are safe,” I say, as if that would be any help.
I catch something in her eye, and it looks all too familiar. I suck in a breath of air, trying sort where I have seen it before. “Commander, I wanted to ask—.” And then my mother is in the corner of my eye. She does not shout to me (would never shout across the room for me or any of my other siblings. How barbaric!) “I am sorry, it would seem our time is cut short,” I say apologetically, or try at least. I was not so much sorry as I was disappointed. It is with the commander, of all people, that for the first time I have spoken so candidly. “Enjoy the rest of the party,” I say as I depart.
code by rallidae
picture colored by Elidhu
@Marisol
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